


The Bluff

by shadow_lover



Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ambiguous endings, Bargaining, Captivity, Desperate Bluffing, Enemies, Gen, Hair-pulling, Self-Sacrifice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-31
Updated: 2018-10-31
Packaged: 2019-07-27 10:43:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16217393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadow_lover/pseuds/shadow_lover
Summary: The Teyrn’s men catch up to them straight out of Redcliffe Castle, and Tabris really needs a new plan.





	The Bluff

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MiraMira](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MiraMira/gifts).



> Happy Halloween! Hope you enjoy :D

The Teyrn’s men catch up to them straight out of Redcliffe Castle, barely a morning’s march towards Kinloch Hold. These aren’t the light patrols Tabris has been cleaning up like spilled flour since Lothering. It’s a full squad—platoon—barracks—Tabris can’t be fucked with shem vocabulary right now. It’s a fuck-lot of men, and it’s not a fair fight.

It’s not a _winnable_ fight, and for one crucial instant, Tabris is the only one who realizes that. He flits to Alistair’s side, because the blockhead will obey without questioning, and says, “Lead them half a league north, hide, and wait for me. I’ll spread them out a bit and meet you there.”

“Elf,” Leliana interrupts, because her ears are good for a shem, and she can read the odds too.

Tabris holds her gaze and repeats firmly, “I’ll meet you there.”

She knows he’s lying, but she holds her tongue and nods. Squeezes his shoulder roughly before following Alistair and the others off.

This parting of ways is strange, Tabris thinks. Alistair, Morrigan, Leliana, Sten. He barely knows these people, but he feels like he’s losing so much more than passing acquaintances. They had such a big task ahead of them. He would have liked to see more of it done.

They will have to do their best without him: save the Arl, secure their allies, kill the archdemon. However the fuck you do that.

He sets his last traps and draws his knives and resolves to give the Teyrn’s men a fight, at least.

A short fight, as expected, but the end is a surprise: rather than gutted on the spot, Tabris is bound in manacles and stripped of his knives.

Rough human hands shove him to the ground. He is dizzy with blood loss, and through his pounding head, he barely hears the approaching footsteps, the rattle and clink of armor. He sees the boots in front of him, though, and hears the familiar, gravelly voice.

“So, we’ve got the scrawny one,” Teyrn Loghain says. “Good. The Templar bastard won’t last long without him.”

A woman asks, “Ser, what shall we do with him?”

Each breath is painfully sharp, and Tabris’s vision swims dark. He did not plan for his survival. He needs a new strategy. He needs to stay awake.

“I haven’t decided yet. A quick death, or a slow one? I don’t want publicity,” Loghain spits like it’s a dirty word, “but the people might like to see us hang the man that got their king killed. What do you think, Ser Cauthrien?”

“My lord,” the same woman says. “Some among the common folk may make martyrs of the Gray Wardens.”

“Quick and simple, then,” Loghain agrees.

The spike of panic clears Tabris’s head. He’s on his knees, in chains, but fuck if he’s been beaten yet. Heart thudding, he glares up at Loghain and rasps, “Not so fast, my lord. You need me.”

Loghain snorts. He squats down and fists his metal-clad fingers in Tabris's hair and yanks his head back. This close, Tabris can see his fury is tempered with something warmer, the pleasure of victory. He says, low and rough like it's just them in the gritty road, "I don't need anyone, elf."

Tabris breathes shallow through the pain. He swallows hard to speak past the dry terror in his throat. He hopes the man sees determination in his eyes, and not a desperate lie, pitched quiet, for Loghain’s ears alone: "I know how to kill archdemons."

Loghain regards him for a moment longer, then lets go of his head, pulling a chunk of hair away in the creases of his gauntlet, and creaks to his feet. But he must need Tabris after all—or there is at least enough doubt in his mind—because instead of slitting his throat then and there, he snarls, "Throw him on a horse. And search him for lock picks."

Tabris waits until the Teyrn has stalked away before slumping in relief.


End file.
